


Surrounded By Nothing (but the nothing's surrounded by us)

by LayALioness



Category: Disney - All Media Types
Genre: Asexuality, Bisexuality, ace!hercules, ace!milo, bi!shang, lesbian!elsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-05
Packaged: 2018-09-06 15:59:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8759554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: someone asked me to write about asexuality & bisexuality in the disney universe. probably more additions to come.





	1. Four Basic Food Groups (Milo/Kida)

Milo was always different, in many different ways. Some of them were subtle, like the way he parted his hair down the middle while every other boy in his class wore theirs more to the side. And some of them weren’t so subtle, like the way he spent every hour he could spare, soaking in books and old films and crisp autumn air like he was a succulent, and knowledge was his sunlight. 

That’s the only reason why, in the end, he even figured it out. He’d always been different, and so for a while, he thought it was just more of the same. He grew older and instead of playing soldiers and cowboys, his cousins and neighbors started playing at courting girls (or boys). And well, Milo hadn’t wanted to go out when it was for t-ball or swordplay, so why should he want to go out now?

(He knows why, of course, in the intellectual sense. He’s read a book on it, or several. But he’d always just assumed they were exaggerating, at least a little bit. That was what writers did, after all. They take the truth, and then sometimes they spread it or ball it up or spin it a little, to make it seem more interesting than it already is. The same way that people sometimes tell a little white lie about themselves, when they’re trying to impress you: _yes, I fought in the war!_ Never mind that he never actually left the home base. _No, I’ve never kissed anyone else!_ Maybe not on the lips.)

And then suddenly one night, he and Kida are kissing–kissing, Milo has found, was _not_  an exaggeration, and is every bit as good as he was promised–when she slides her hand up his leg, and then just keeps going. Milo manages not to choke on his own tongue, though it’s a near thing, and Kida can clearly tell something’s wrong.

She’s confused, and he supposes that makes sense. He hasn’t hidden how beautiful he finds her, how _interested_  he is–in everything, her world, her history, but mostly in _her_. Everything about her. She probably assumed–well, he’s not sure _what_  she assumed, but if she’s anything at all like the girls back home, she probably assumed she’d at least get a wedding night out of him.

Milo has always been different, but he’s never felt self conscious about those differences–not even when all the other boys on the swim team were denser and faster, not when his professors changed their office hours without telling him just because they didn’t want him around, not even when he got stood up on his first and only date when he was sixteen. Not until now.

He could probably do it, right? He’s inexperienced, but then he was inexperienced when it came to kissing too, but Kida didn’t seem to mind taking the lead. She liked being the teacher. So he could probably just, what, lay back? Think of England? 

Kida puts a hand on his cheek, the way she does sometimes. Her skin is always cooler than his, the same temperature as the water. “What is wrong?” she asks, and he knows that he has to tell her. He always tells her the truth. He’s never even wanted to twist it.

“I don’t–I’ve never, uh,” he glances down at the hand she has still resting on his thigh, hoping she’ll catch his meaning. Judging by the way her mouth slides up like a cat, she does.

“I will show you,” she purrs, and Milo pulls away just a little when she moves to kiss him.

“No, it’s, uh, more complicated?” She sits back, waiting for him to finish. “I’ve never actually _wanted_  to. I don’t, uh, want to, that is.”

Kida eyes him up and down, but not like she’s disappointed, or upset. More like she’s curious, the way she is about most things from the surface world. She’s always been just as interested in him as he is in her, and most of the time he loves it. But sometimes it makes him feel like he’s on display at the Smithsonian, in a little glass box surrounded by eager eyes. 

“Do they not–in your world?” She skips over the actual words, and Milo isn’t sure if it’s because she’s taking cues from him or because she isn’t sure of the translation. 

“Most do,” he shrugs. “As far as I know, I’m the odd duck out.” He tries a smile, but it must be as nervous as the rest of them, because Kida melts back into his lap without hesitating.

“Do you want–” she pauses, and then kisses him, ruining his hair and knocking his glasses aside, kissing and kissing him until he can’t breathe.

“Yes,” he says–gasps, if he’s honest–when she pulls back, just far enough for him to still feel her breath on his lips. “Yes, that’s, uh,” he swallows, and she grins. “That’s fine,” he says, and she leans back in. They’re both smiling now, and it’s a little tricky, kissing while smiling, but they manage.


	2. I Fight Good But You Fight Better (Shang/Mulan)

Li Shang discovers men before he discovers women, simply out of convenience and good timing. 

Convenience, because it is easier for young men of his age to be left alone with other men his age, than young women. And good timing, because he manages to stumble into a training tent that’s empty save for one particular cadet, who is already in the process of disrobing.

Shang stutters out an apology, but the cadet shrugs it off. He recognizes him, vaguely, but the training camp is large and Shang has been focused on his own training. 

“I don’t mind,” he says, and finishes undressing. The look that he gives Shang is a challenge and, as his father and teachers can all confirm, Shang has never backed down from a fight.

After that, it doesn’t become _often_ , his noticing men, but it does happen. Mostly, people are lucky if Shang notices them at all, and when he does, it’s usually fellow soldiers. Shang could never like someone that he can’t respect, and there’s something about victory sex after a fight.

Shang still likes women, but in the easy way that he doesn’t have to think about or work at because  _of course_  he likes women. He _has_  to like women. Men are–well he’s not sure what they are, to him. He likes the way their voices dive deeper than they seem like they should, and he likes the feel of them at his back, and the way he sometimes scratches his cheeks on their stubble. But in the end, he can’t marry a man, he can’t have a son with a man, and that’s really all that matters.

Sometimes, when he’s feeling especially rebellious, he thinks about it, though. Thinks about running off with one of them. He hasn’t met anyone, so far, that he likes well enough to throw down his sword for, but he might one day. He thinks about it, and then he closes his eyes and he thinks _I’m fucked_ , because he is.

And then he meets Ping.

Ping is exactly the sort of man that Shang has never liked much. He’s short, and _slender_ , the way a girl might be slender. And he has a pretty mouth that worries Shang a little, in all the worst ways. He isn’t strong, or particularly fast, or fearless. But he is–inspiring. And dangerous.

He’s the first thing that Shang sees after the avalanche, and the first thing he thinks is _thank goodness you’re safe_ , and he knows that it’s over. 

And then he sees Ping fall, hand bloody, and he thinks his heart might actually rip itself from his chest. He’s never felt that kind of pain, never even dreamed of it, and he knows that it’s love because that’s what love is. Pain, and an ending that he can never finish.

He can’t even feel relieved when the doctor tells him the truth, because–what sort of relief is there, in a story like this? He falls in love with a soldier, who turns out to be a girl. And that doesn’t stop him from loving her, but she lied to him, and he isn’t sure what to do with that. He isn’t sure what to do with her kneeling down in front of him, waiting for the swing. He isn’t sure what to do with riding away from her, slow and steady and absolutely _not_  turning to look at her, because he is Captain Li Shang and he does not turn for anyone.

But then she comes back, even when he told her not to. Even when it meant her life. She comes back, and she saves him _again_ , and the entire country while she’s at it, and then the Emperor basically tells him he’d be a fool to let her go a second time. And who is he, to refuse advice from the Emperor? 

He doesn’t bring it up until they’re engaged, because while Shang is the last person to run from a battle, he’s also the last to bring up something as trivial as _feelings_. Give him a sword fight to the death, any day.

To his surprise, Mulan only shrugs, when he tells her. She doesn’t even look up from her calligraphy. (She’s as bad as she was before he knew her, but it only makes him like her more. Everything she does makes him like her more–except for how she likes to throw herself in between him and danger. That sort of freaks him out.)

“You’re not–upset?” he asks, just to be sure. He’s kind of terrible at discerning sarcasm, or hints. Mulan had to tell him she was in love with him and wanted to marry him, before he realized he should even propose. 

“Why would I be upset?” she frowns, looking genuinely confused. “You’re attracted to men and women. I don’t really see the problem, unless you’re attracted to someone else more than me.” 

“There’s never been anyone I’ve wanted more than you,” Shang says, seriously, and Mulan smiles because she knew, she just likes to her him say it, sometimes.

“Seriously, Shang, I’m fine with it. You’re acting like you think you were subtle, back when I was Ping.”

Shang flushes, which makes her laugh. She prefers him flustered. 

But the worries have built themselves up inside him over time, and so without really meaning to, he spills everything out to her. How sometimes, he’s worried about his inexperience when it comes to the female body, and doubly worried by the fact that, aside from Mulan, he can’t actually remember ever liking a _specific_ woman. It was always just concepts, because that was what he was taught he should like. Soft curves and skin and warm, wet mouths and gentle fingers and the space between their thighs. 

How sometimes he’s worried that he doesn’t actually like women at all, not really, not the way he’s meant to. How sometimes he wakes up unable to breathe because he’s so sure that Mulan will realize he doesn’t see her the way she wants him to, the way she deserves, and she’ll leave.

Mulan waits for him to finish, patient, always just as patient as he isn’t, always making up for the things he lacks. And what is it that he can give her in return? He’d always assumed that when it came time to marry, he would offer his trade as a renowned soldier, his skill with a sword. But Mulan is even more renowned than he is; she’s had hymns written about her. People recognize and bow to her in the streets. He may be a better fighter, but she’s just _better_ , and so what’s left for him to give?

“Do you love me?” she asks, when he’s finished.

“More than anything.”

She moves closer to them, until their knees are touching, and she looks him in the eye. She never backs down, either. “Do you want me?”

Shang thinks about pressing his mouth to her neck until she gasps, pulling her in against him so there’s no space between. “Yes.”

She kisses him, and she’s still close enough that he can feel her lips move when she speaks. “You want to know what you can give me? You. You’re all I’ve ever wanted.”

Shang sighs, and closes the distance. “I can do that.”


	3. Put Me In Summer (Elsa & Anna)

When Elsa was a young girl, she and the housekeeper’s daughter had a game they liked to play. It was called Kiss The Prince, and they would take turns being the prince, and being the princess, and they would kiss until they went dizzy.

Looking back on it, that might have been the first sign that Elsa didn’t like boys, if the only kind of prince she wanted to kiss was the girl kind.

As she grew older, so did the houskeeper’s daughter, and Elsa found herself lingering in each kiss, moving her hands up to touch her hair, or neck, or shoulders, trying to make the other girl sigh so she could swallow the taste of it.

The game stopped eventually, of course, just like her snow games with Anna did. She outgrew them, but she didn’t outgrow kissing, or girls.

The housekeeper’s daughter discovered she _did_  like boys, which was fine. There were plenty of other staff in the castle, with plenty of other daughters for Elsa to learn on her own.

She was sixteen when the steward first walked in on her, in a very immodest position with the head cook’s niece, in her bedchambers. Honestly, she’s surprised it didn’t happen sooner.

“This is incredibly unbecoming behavior for a princess,” the steward told her, once the niece had re-dressed as best she could before fleeing. Elsa would sneak out later that night, to make it up to her. 

She liked kissing, among other things. It was the only time that her mind went blank enough that she didn’t feel nervous at all, and if the cook’s niece was curious as to why she always kept her gloves on, she never asked her.

“Because she’s a servant?” she asked, as the steward frowned the whole of his enormous mustache at her. He was the closest thing to a substitute father she had. 

Her parents had been lost at sea for nearly a year now, but she was still waiting. She had a particularly detailed fantasy, where they just show up one morning, dressed in borrowed commoners’ clothes and looking a bit worse for wear, but alive. And then they throw an enormous party, where they announce that Anna was going to be the crown princess, not her, and Elsa would be allowed to go live in a little cottage in the mountains, where she could make it snow as much as she like, and kiss whoever she wanted.

“Because it simply won’t do for the crown princess to bed another _girl_ ,” the steward said, and it was the first time he’d ever actually surprised her.

It had never occurred to Elsa, that anyone might care about their _gender_. Her purity, yes. Her partner’s bloodline, most likely. Her marital status, of course, but never the _gender_  of who she married.

“You are expected to produce an _heir_ ,” the steward explained, not unkindly. He did, for what it was worth, seem to be sorry. But this was his job; he existed, to make sure that Elsa didn’t thoroughly mess up running her country. And according to the professionals, kissing girls was a sign that she would.

“What if I marry another princess?” Elsa asked. “And we adopt an heir?”

She could tell from the way that his mustache sagged down, the answer was no.

And so Elsa stopped seeing the cook’s niece, and the steward had her transferred to a nice cushy position in some neighboring kingdom, and paid her off for her trouble. Elsa stopped seeing much of anyone; she’d always been good at keeping secrets, after all. What was one more?

Which is why, when Anna comes up to her, all lit up and excited about marrying this strange man that she’d only just met, it stings. Here is her sister, her darling golden-hearted sister, who never has to wonder how she’s going to run a whole kingdom when she can hardly run her own heart. Who never has to look away sharply, when she sees a girl blush and thinks _what if…_  Who never has to hate her own hands and her own thoughts and her own dreams, because she can’t seem to control any of it.

And Elsa knows it isn’t fair to Anna, she knows it isn’t her fault, but this is the nature of envy. 

Anna finds her, the morning after her return to the palace, after everything that happened in the square. She’s dressed for a warm day, all spring-happy colors even though it’s still bitter outside, the remnants of Elsa’s curse.

Anna sighs as she sits next to her sister, pressed right up against her, not afraid at all. 

“Are you going to go visit that gentleman friend of yours?” Elsa asks, and Anna promptly chokes on nothing. Elsa hides her smile behind her braid.

“I wouldn’t call him a _gentleman_ ,” Anna mumbles, and then clears her throat pointedly. They do still have a lot to catch up on. “What about you? Any _gentleman friend_ visits in your future?” She waggles her eyebrows ridiculously.

“Probably,” Elsa says lightly. She’s practiced the art of not caring. “I’m expected to marry, and produce an heir, after all.”

Anna wrinkles her nose at the thought. “Gods, that sounds awful. I mean, it’s one thing if you _want_  to get married and have children–do you? Want that?” 

Elsa opens her mouth and nothing comes out. She’s never been asked it, before.

“I’m not sure,” she says, and then, since keeping secrets hasn’t seemed to do her any favors, she adds “I don’t want to marry a _gentleman_. But I might want to marry. And have children. Some day.”

Anna, to her credit, catches on remarkably quicker than Elsa’s ever seen her catch onto anything else. It might be a sister’s intuition. 

“Can’t you just do that, then? I mean, you’re the queen now. Can’t you just change the law?”

Elsa blinks at her, stunned. “You know, I’m not sure,” she admits. “I’ve never thought about it. I just–I just thought it would happen. I thought I’d have no control.”

Anna sighs a second time, and takes Elsa’s hand. She isn’t wearing her gloves today, and the air still feels strange on her skin. Everything feels strange and new, like her skin is raw and newborn. She doesn’t hate it. 

“It might do you some good to ask for other people’s help sometimes, you know,” Anna says, and Elsa smiles.

“When did you become so wise?”

“When you stopped playing with me,” Anna says promptly. “I was stuck inside with nothing to do. I had to read _books_ ,” she makes a face. Elsa laughs, and squeezes her hand.

“I’ll see about changing that law,” she promises, and Anna nods, professionally.

“Good.” She swipes a kiss to her sister’s cheek and jumps up, presumably to run off to see Kristoff. “Don’t wait up!”

As it turns out, Elsa _can_  change the law, or at least, there isn’t any specific rule that says she _can’t_. And just because it’s never been done before, doesn’t mean that she shouldn’t be the first to do it. Change has been doing her a lot of good, recently. 


	4. A True Hero Is Measured By The Strength Of His ***** (fill in the blanks) (Meg/Hercules)

Hercules and Meg are in a fight.

She won’t say it’s a fight, all she’s been saying for the past two days are _it’s fine_ , and _nothing’s wrong_ , and _leave me alone, Hercules_ –but Hercules knows it’s a fight because Meg only ever calls him Hercules when she’s mad at him, and she hasn’t been teasing him like she usually does. He even went to work out at the gym this morning, and she didn’t follow along, to ogle him. 

He can’t ask what’s wrong, because she refuses to admit that _anything’s_  wrong, but he knows what it is, anyway. 

It’s about sex, specifically it’s about the sex that they had two days ago, because it was the first time after their wedding night, and it was horrible. Normally, Hercules would feel bad, calling it horrible, but he’s never been a big fan of stretching the truth, and he doesn’t see the point in lying about it, since he’s the one at fault. It was horrible, because he was horrible, because the night after their wedding he’d been a little bit drunk on ambrosia and Meg had gladly taken the reigns. And, while he doesn’t remember most of it, he’s assuming everything went well, because she teased him in the morning.

But then two days ago, they tried it again while he was stone cold sober and, well. It was embarrassingly bad. He didn’t know what he was doing, and Meg was getting impatient and convinced for some reason that he suddenly wasn’t interested in her–which was, honestly, shocking to him because _how_  could she think that when she was the most beautiful woman in the universe? And then it just turned into one big uncomfortable mess which left Hercules feeling guilty and Meg feeling upset. 

He has to fix it, right? He’s going to fix it, obviously. He can’t have finally married the girl of his dreams just to disappoint her with his sexual prowess deficiency. He isn’t sure _how_  one stocks up on dexterity for their dick, but he’s a demigod, so he’ll figure it out. There has to be another option; you don’t have a father like Zeus for nothing. His dad once seduced a girl as a _swan_. _An actual, live swan_. Like, with feathers.

But if Zeus is known for the impressively complex variety of his sexual resume, he is not known for his quality advice.

“Have you tried turning into a bull?”

Hercules stares hard at his father, trying to decide if this is a joke. “A….bull?”

“Well, she’d have to be a cow first,” Zeus adds. “But that’s easy enough.”

“Um,” Hercules fidgets on his seat in the throne room, which is strangely the most comfortable room in Olympus. He suspects it’s because this is where Zeus spends most of his time; sitting on his throne, feeling very important. “I was thinking more, as ourselves? Both of us, you know, human. Or, sort of human, in my case.”

Zeus nods thoughtfully. “Right, right, makes sense. Humans definitely _feel_  more than any lupine. But consider this: gold coins. Has an air of glamour about it, don’t you think?”

Hercules does not think gold coins have an air of glamour.

He goes to Aphrodite next, because she’s the goddess of love, obviously, and also of procreation, as a bonus. He’s pretty sure she’s his aunt, or maybe a second cousin. He doesn’t know; his family tree is weird.

“I need your help,” he starts, after he apologizes for interrupting the–whatever was happening was Medusa. He tried not to look, once he realized his aunt/cousin wasn’t alone. He didn’t want to seem rude, or opportunistic, or anything. But there were a lot of snakes hissing and _writhing_  in a way that he didn’t really think was safe.

“My help?” Aphrodite asks, clearly irritated, as she ties shut her robe. Medusa passes her a pipe of hemp seed, which she began to smoke.

“I think I’m bad at sex and Meg is upset with me,” Hercules blurts out, because he really did come for advice, and it wouldn’t do to be vague about it. He needs all the help he can get.

“Oh, dear,” Aphrodite says, but she sounds a little pleased about it. “I’m not used to young men like you being so _forward_.” She uncrosses and re-crosses her long legs, letting the robe fall open enough for him to see the shiny pink of her thighs. Hercules stares resolutely at her face.

“I need your help,” he says again, and Medusa nudges Aphrodite with her elbow.

“Yes I _know_ ,” Aphrodite tells her, and then turns back to him, exhaling sweet smoke in a perfect heart. “Look kid, I’ll be honest. I’m not too keen on your kind, outside of the bedroom.”

“My kind?”

“Men,” Medusa explains, and Aphrodite shushes her. One of the snakes rolls its eyes.

“They’re typically showy, dumb oxen, who all think they’re Gods’ gift to women– _especially_  any son of Zeus,” she makes a face, and Hercules feels his heart sink. She must sense it, because she shoots him a wink. “But you’re a different kind of animal,” she says, and she almost sounds _fond_. “You gave up a seat at the Pantheon for love, and more than that, you waited till she wanted you back. That goes a long way for me.”

“Mm,” Medusa agrees, and Aphrodite passes her the pipe, before leaning forward, setting her chin in both hands.

“So I’ll tell you what–go see my granddaughter, Hedone. I’m just the goddess of love, and your wife already loves you, that much is clear. If it’s good sex that you’re after, Hedone’s the one to ask.”

“Thanks,” Hercules stutters, because apparently Aphrodite and Medusa aren’t going to bother waiting for him to leave, before continuing where they left off.

Hedone doesn’t live in Olympus, and she isn’t so well-known as most of his relatives, so it’s a bit of a hike before he manages to find her temple.

Once there, it’s only a short wait before she shows up, looking a little confused.

“Are you in the right temple?” she asks him. “The one for Hebe is two blocks down, if that’s who you’re looking for.”

“No, I’m pretty sure it’s you I want,” Hercules assures her. “Hedone, right? Your grandmother sent me. I’m pretty sure we’re cousins?”

Hedone sits beside him with a sigh. “At this point who _aren’t_  we related to?”

“Good point.”

“So why are you looking for me? You ran out of sex positions and need to spice things up a bit?”

Hercules flushes immediately, which Hedone seems to enjoy. God, she can’t be more than eighteen, which only makes this whole thing more embarrassing. He’s not sure she’s even old enough to be hearing about his sex life, let alone giving him advice about it, though she certainly seems very willing. His family sure is…voyeuristic. Whatever happened to good old fashioned smalltalk about the weather?

“Um, sort of. I don’t really _get_  sex.”

Hedone stares at him. “Sorry, what? It’s sex. What is there to get?”

“I just don’t see the point of it?” he tries. He hasn’t actually gotten this far into explaining it, before. How when he looks at Meg, he’s filled with a bright warmth he can’t really describe, like the sun is heating him up from the inside out, and all she has to do is breathe near him, to make him happy. And how when she starts undressing, or undressing _him_ , he can’t help feeling a little doused out, and uncomfortable, and nervous in a way he isn’t used to, and doesn’t like.

“So I’m hoping maybe if I learn enough about how to do it properly, like maybe take some courses or something, then it’ll start feeling good and she won’t be upset anymore,” he finishes.

Hedone squints at him, like he’s a textbook, with font two sizes too small. “You want to take _courses_  on how to properly pleasure your wife?” she clarifies, and Hercules nods. She heaves a sigh that seems to deflate her body before sitting up from where she’d slouched back while he spoke. “Look, I’m going to tell you a secret,” she leans in like she’s going to whisper, and Hercules leans in to hear. “Not everybody likes sex,” she says, and his whole world stops on its axis.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and she swats him on the shoulder.

“I’m the goddess of sex, of course I’m sure! Listen, everything you just described? Perfectly normal, and it doesn’t mean you need to study up on cunnilingus, or whatever.”

“Sorry, cunni-what?”

Hedone squints at him again, reassessing. “Okay, you might want to study up on that. But as for, like, _sex_ -sex? You’re fine. Some people just don’t like it, and that’s alright. Just _talk to your wife_. Tell her what you told me. She’s probably just upset because she thinks you like it with other people, but not her. Let her know she’s not the issue. Neither of you are.”

“So there are more people who don’t…who are like me?” Hercules asks, careful. He hadn’t really thought that was a possibility. He thought he was just–untalented. Or broken. Most men he’d overheard bragging about their conquests and abilities had made it sound like sex was the greatest joy in life, and if Hercules couldn’t even enjoy it a little bit, what did that say about him?

Hedone seems to take pity, and offers a reassuring smile. “Of course there are. And, don’t tell anyone, but you guys are actually my favorites. You never pester me for bigger dicks or endless orgasms.”

Hercules chokes and she laughs, sending him on her way. “Seriously, you’re fine, I promise. Go home, talk to your wife, maybe go down on her if you’re into that, and don’t if you’re not. Everything’s going to be okay.”

Hercules takes her advice, and heads home. His feet are sore from the full day of walking, though, so he gives a low echoing whistle, and hops onto Pegasus, for a ride. He’s barely in the door, when Meg corners him.

*

Hercules’ toga is a veritable Tartarus, and the imprisoned Titan is his dick–Meg has been working towards a prison break for some time, now. The guy bench-presses small mountains and is the son of gods, so he’s got to be hung, right? He just _has_  to. It wouldn’t be fair, otherwise.

Honestly, she didn’t think it would take this long.

At first, Meg assumed it was because they weren’t married, and that certainly did seem to play a part in his persistent modesty. She’d never been with a virgin before, and she was looking forward to playing headmistress, maybe even spanking him when he got something wrong.

But apparently the good boy thing wasn’t an act. Hercules could have bridled a unicorn, if he wanted. A whole armada of unicorns, with his self restraint. And it wasn’t like Meg wasn’t _trying_. She’d never had to try this hard at anything in her entire life. She was starting to think he just wasn’t into her.

But then he’d slip; she’d be in his lap, kissing him and running her hands over his arms and tugging at his lip with her teeth, sitting straight so that he had to look up at her, and he’d let out the tiniest gasp, as fragile as glass, and she’d look down to find him totally wrecked and at her mercy.

But the second she had her hand on his upper thigh, it was over, like a flip was switched; _Wonderboy’s Dick Store is closing, please come again!_

Obviously, Meg wasn’t _only_  with him because she wanted to know what it was like to sleep with the son of a god. She loved him, all of him, from his dumb ginger hair, to the way he only called her _Megara_  quietly at night, to his ridiculous muscles. But she’d be lying if she said that his demigod penis wasn’t one of the perks, or at least, she’d thought it would be.

Then they got married, and she thought _finally_ , and maybe she cried a little bit when he promised to only rescue her when she asked for his help, and said she was allowed to rescue him whenever she felt like it.

But mostly she was on edge the whole ceremony, eyes straying just a little bit below his waist, thinking _this is it, the big finale._

Except, it wasn’t. It was fine, in the way that most drunken sex is fine. It was actually better than fine, because it was also happy married sex, which she’d never had before, and it was sex with someone she loved, which always makes it better.

But it was, ultimately, a little disappointing, considering she was married to a demigod. At first she chalked it up to the ambrosia.

Then they had sex a second time, sober sex which is always either way worse than drunk sex or a million times better, and, well. It was worse. Which sort of pissed her off.

She knew she shouldn’t be so over dramatic; he was a virgin, after all, and a bit of a prude at that. _Of course_  he wouldn’t be some Lothario straight out of the chastity belt. God genetics can only do so much.

But it just felt wildly unfair, somehow. Here was the man of her dreams, and he couldn’t even manage to have sex with her when he wasn’t inebriated. Or, and this thought was slightly louder and definitely worse, he just wasn’t sexually attracted to her when he was sober.

Which was a stupid fear, she _knows_ , but that’s what irrational fears are. Stupid. It doesn’t mean that they aren’t there, taking up all the free space in your brain until they’re all you can think about. She could tell her anxieties to take a hike all day long, but it didn’t mean they’d listen.

“Meg?” Hercules calls, stepping into the front hall. He’s been out all day, after their non-fight fight that morning, and Meg has been waiting for him to get back, while pretending she wasn’t waiting.

 _Talk to him like an adult,_ said a voice in the back of her mind. _You’re married now, and he’s the most understanding guy you know. He’ll listen and then you can put it all behind you and have make-up sex. Make-up sex is the best._

 _Attack him in the hall_ , said a different voice. _Suck his dick until he passes out, and realizes he wants you._

“That sounds like a solid plan,” Meg decides, and corners him just inside the door.

“Whoa,” Hercules says, and she can practically hear the blush in his voice. He really is incredibly bashful. It’s cute, when it isn’t getting in the way of her sex life.

“Hush, Wonderboy,” Meg smirks, folding down on her knees as he stutters. She takes his hand and puts it in her hair, in invitation. “Time for me to be the hero.”

Meg starts to push the hem of his toga up with her nose, brushing at the fine hairs on his thigh, and Hercules suddenly blurts “I don’t like sex at all–!”

She pauses, and then rolls back on her heels to look up at him, finding his cheeks have gone red and blotchy, matching the curls of his hair. “What, not at _all_?”

He shakes his head, biting his lip, like he’s worried. “Not even a little.” Meg stares and he fidgets, clearly anxious about how she’ll react. Her husband doesn’t like sex, maybe even _hates_  it, but has been trying, because he’s worried about letting her down.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He lets out a breath, and helps her up from the floor, gingerly reaching down to brush off her knees, avoiding her eye. “I didn’t know it was normal,” he says, and the sound breaks her heart a little. “I thought, I don’t know. That I could fix it, and make things good for you.”

“You’re an idiot,” she says, and kisses him. He kisses her back, has never seemed to dislike kissing her back, but she doesn’t want to push things, so she pulls back. She isn’t sure what sort of boundaries come with a confession like this. “A perfect, beautiful idiot,” she reiterates, and he grins, boyish and sunny, her favorite. She hopes she always makes him smile like that.

“I went to my dad for advice about sex,” he tells her, and Meg can’t help rolling her eyes. Her beautiful, _naive_  idiot husband.

“Like he would know,” she snorts, and kisses the dimple in his chin.

“ _Then_  I went to Aphrodite, and then Hedone. It was Hedone, who helped me figure it out.”

“So you don’t like sex,” Meg says, just to make sure she has it right. “What about kissing?”

Hercules grins. “I like kissing.”

“Yeah? Good to know; you were being subtle about it. What about this?” She reaches up on her toes to graze her teeth against his jugular, and feels him shudder.

“That’s fine too,” he says, breathlessly.

“And this?” She runs her nails down the skin of his arms, and he nods. She eyes his toga mournfully. “Do I still get to see you naked?”

He barks out a laugh, looking surprised, although she isn’t sure _why_. It’s not like _she’s_  the one who left any doubts, here. She’s always wanted everything that she could get from him. She didn’t think she was _subtle_. 

“Is that what you’re really concerned about?” he asks, amused. “Yes, you can see me naked, lick my abs, whatever you want. I just–”

“Don’t want to put your Wonderbread inside me,” she finishes, and he indelicately chokes.

“Y-yeah, uh. That.”

“Alright,” Meg shrugs. Most of her irritation stemmed from confusion and disbelief, and now that she’s been offered an explanation, it’s melted straight off her shoulders. It’s not the end of the world if her husband is uncomfortable with having sex. It’s not like she’s a stranger to the idea of taking care of herself, and he _did_  say she could still lick his abs, so…

“There is something else that I’d like to try though,” Hercules says, and the way he’s looking at her makes excitement pool low in her belly. “If you’re okay with it.”

Meg reaches up and he obligingly scoops her into his arms, starting up the stairs towards their bed. She loves it when he carries her; if she had things her way, she’d never have to walk anywhere again.

She’s not sure what she’s expecting her husband’s experiment to be, but she _isn’t_  expecting him to flop back on their mattress, pulling her up over him so that she straddles his face.

“I asked Hedone for some tips,” he tells her, and Meg makes a mental note to thank the goddess at their next family brunch.

Meg hates the family brunches, but she loves Hercules, and the Gods’ chef seriously knows their craft, so she endures it. 

It would be a lot easier, if she and Hercules weren’t separated at the start of every meal; the Gods (and Hercules) following Zeus into his weird God Cave, while the Goddesses (and Meg) eat with Hera at the illustrious table.

Mostly it’s just Athena, Aphrodite and Hera making cheap jabs and snipes at each other over ambrosia and fig juice, while Artemis plays poker with the less catty guests, in the corner.

“What about you, Megara?” Athena asks, and Meg swallows a grimace. She hates how the Pantheon says her name, like _meg-AR-ah._ “How’s your love life?”

She’s smirking meanly, which means that Aphrodite must have told her about Hercules’ visit, because goddesses like Athena and Aphrodite are only nice in small portions.

Meg smiles brightly and finishes her drink. “ _Very_  nice, actually. I believe I have your granddaughter to thank for that,” she tells Aphrodite. “Please excuse me.”

She makes her way over to the other end of the table, and slides into the empty seat between Hedone and Artemis. 

“You look good,” Hedone says knowingly, and Meg grins.

“I heard you gave my husband some advice.”

“He’s a good guy,” Hedone says, a little protectively, which makes Meg like her.

“He is,” she agrees, and turns back to Artemis, all business. “Deal me in, girls. I’m feeling lucky.”


End file.
